


take me outside my head

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Bottom Sam, Burnplay, Felching, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cause sometimes Sam just needs to open himself up, to be opened – ripped wide and scooped out so he can float away. There’s something in there deep that’s gotta be dug out like a splinter that’s worked it’s way under a nail and Dean was always tough enough to take the knife to Sam’s skin and pry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take me outside my head

Sam drops his duffel bag right inside the door and kicks off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket halfway to the bed farthest from the door cause Dean always takes the one nearest, and falls face first onto the stiff musty sheets. His head is too full of things that keep running circles around themselves, about freak kids and demon blood and these abilities that can apparently manifest in a lot of different ways. It’s not just nightmares that are premonitions, it’s psychic powers. The ability to manipulate other people, make them do what you want whether that’s just to get a free cup of coffee or to coax someone off a ledge.

He doesn’t want to think about how messed up these kids are – how messed up he is – and how much worse it can get. All Sam wants to do is get a good night’s sleep, but he’s afraid he doesn’t get those anymore.

The bed dips next to him with Dean’s weight and Sam rolls to his side with a grumble. But then Dean is shaking a distraction in his face and Sam looks at his brother’s wide smile, all charm. Dean leans back against the headboard while Sam is curled in a parenthesis, little clear baggie holding a small bud of green.

“Dean, where’d you get that?”

“From Andy.”

“Really, and you’d trust him?”

“He was a good kid. C’mon, I know you want to Sammy.”

Huffing, instead of answering, Sam just nudges a little closer to Dean’s warmth, draping an arm over his brother’s lap and quietly accepting that he’ll do anything Dean wants as long as he can get out of his head for a few minutes. A hand ruffles through his hair, teasingly at first but it turns into a gentle pull.

“That’s my boy. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know.” Sam talks quietly against the cotton tee over Dean’s side, where his body pushes out just a little when he breaths and if Sam pushes his ear up a little higher he could hear Dean’s heartbeat.

Dean pulls the Bible from the nightstand beside the bed and puts the baggie down on top of it, fingers dipping in to his pockets to bring out a lighter, a small green glass pipe, a filter. They’re not familiar to Sam and he wonders if Dean swiped them from Andy too or if he’s had them a while, just not long enough for Sam to find out. It’s been a while since they’ve done this together.

With deft, sure hands that Sam always loves watching whether it’s to strip a gun or stroke his cock or hold a beer, Dean crumbles the bud and packs his bowl. Sam just lays next to him, one hand on Dean’s thigh, warm and firm under his fingertips tripping lazy up the seam to tease at the fat semi there. Dean hums while he works, shifts his hips down a little lower keeping his work surface on the Bible even, licks his pretty lips shiny when he lifts the bowl to them to light it up.

Sam rolls to his back and pushes up on the bed, sitting next to Dean shoulder to shoulder and he can smell the sweat of Dean’s body until the heady thick spice of pungent smoke curls out of Dean’s mouth that’s turned up in a Cheshire smile as he tips towards Sam.

“Mm, I knew Andy’d have good stuff,” and his voice is raspier already though he’s only taken one hit, passing the bowl over to Sam’s waiting hands.

There’s still a red glow so Sam takes a hit before it dies, drawing it easy into his lungs, muscle memory, rush of associations flooding his system with the first acrid dry burn in the back of his throat. Hot sweaty summers spent sticky and naked whenever they could, lazing with cheap plastic tube pops and pilfered beers, cheap weed and young eager mouths so ready to explore. Sam lets the bittersweet flow of memories lighten his chest as he exhales with a cough that makes Dean grin and shove his shoulder.

“C’mon, don’t tell me you went sober in college, how long’s it been since your last time Sam?”

“That summer, when I was seventeen.”

“That was a good summer.”

“Yeah.”

And he can see the haze of memories glassy in Dean’s eyes when he takes the bowl back and lifts the lighter to it again, bright glow of the weed burning on his inhale as he purses his lips with purposeful insinuation around it, looking right at Sam and right into him.

Sam can remember, back then, when he thought everything was fucked up because monsters were real and he knew how to handle a shot gun when he was twelve, back then he thought it couldn’t get worse and he was so greedy for every good thing Dean could give him. It’s not much different now, knowing what he is and learning what he’s meant to be and he would think it couldn’t get much more fucked up than this but Sam’s not going to make the mistake of thinking that again. He will, however, greedily take every good thing Dean has for him and hoard them close in under his chest like a treasure.

Dean doesn’t pass the bowl over this time, instead he turns his head and bumps his lips against Sam’s jaw, chest puffed out with his deep breath and holding it there, waiting. Sam wonders if he’d wait forever. Sam couldn’t. Turning over more fully, rolling onto his hip and throwing a leg over Dean’s thigh he wraps one hand around the back of his brother’s neck and pulls him closer to press their lips together firmly. Seal them. Tight and knowing, not like the first time they did this long before that summer of seventeen when it was the first shy touch of his brother’s lips against his passing the smoke in shared breath like a secret but that wasn’t the secret Sam was meant to learn, the tang of weed and the light headed release, no his secret to learn then was the softness inside Dean’s mouth and the flutter of his heartbeat under Sam’s small hand pressed against that broad chest.

The heady smoke tastes even better from Dean’s lips, like everything else does, like lingering blood from a bust lip and sour whiskey wet behind his teeth, everything tastes better from Dean’s mouth – even lies.

So when Dean tells him that everything is going to be okay, that Sam won’t end up like that, that he’s good and he’s right – it’s bittersweet and thick to swallow but it tastes all right from Dean’s mouth.

Sam takes all these roiling thoughts in his head and in his heart that keep him weighted down lead limbed and sinking, he takes all of these and he exhales them with the gray smoke swirling up and up and away to parts unknown. With every deep swallow and shared breath, he lets go of a little more until there’s not much left inside him. And it’s easier then, to feel Dean’s calloused hands pulling his clothes away and Dean’s soft lips against the curve of his throat. Easier to bear the overwhelming press of his brother’s love.

Passing the bowl back and forth, more often than not sharing the smoke between their lips, clothes peeled away one by one until the bed is littered around them and it’s just skin, spit wet lips, dilated eyes, the drum of a heartbeat so loud Sam can hear it can feel it and he’s not sure if it’s his or Dean’s or both, he can hear it. When the bowl’s burned down. Air thick with the lingering exhales, and Sam giggles cause he’s always liked to think of the thick of the smoke as Dean’s breath wrapping around him.

“Sammy.”

It even talks to him. That smoke rich breath.

Fingers drag down his bare shoulder, warmth pressed against his front, and Sam realizes his eyes are closed. The bed sheets feel thistly rough under his thighs but the heat of his brother is silk soft, Sam just needs Dean on all of him, around all of him. Those gentle hands, stroking over his body and sending ripples shivering under his skin.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean, hey Dean. Can you, can you do something for me?”

His tongue is thick and dry and as much as he works it against the top of his mouth it won’t wet. Dean always makes him drool though, makes him wet with sweat and come and tears and wanting so he just needs to wet his tongue on Dean. Pressing forward, mouths finding each other clumsy slow, Sam licks into his brother’s mouth and finds what he needs there to drench his own thirst and he just wants to drown.

“Sam, what is it?”

“Will you hurt me Dean?”

And he tries to ask it so baby sweet and innocent, like it’s nothing in the world, like Dean hasn’t only ever tried not to but when Sam asks it he will. Cause sometimes Sam just needs to open himself up, to be opened – ripped wide and scooped out so he can float away. There’s something in there deep that’s gotta be dug out like a splinter that’s worked it’s way under a nail and Dean was always tough enough to take the knife to Sam’s skin and pry.

“Just like we used to?”

Maybe it was different then, than now, but memories converge in hazy sense recollection and he’s swimming with used to be and ought to be and what are we now, and all he wants is to recapture that, Dean’s hands prying him open to find his secrets glistening red and show them to Sam. He needs to see that, needs to know, needs to feel.

Sam doesn’t realize he’s on his back with his legs spread but it’s somewhere he loves to be when it’s his brother between his thighs so he smiles dimple wide and languishes in the vulnerability he gives to Dean. Holding the lighter up with the flame flicking over the glint of metal, Dean strokes a hand down his thigh dragging blunt nails that leave tingling trails skittering over Sam’s skin. And he’s hypnotized by the flame, tiny but bright, can feel the prick of sweat beading on his skin waiting. Dean, he’s so good to Sam, he lets the metal warm before letting the flame go out and pressing the heat of it to the softest tender crook of Sam’s thigh up high towards the hip, secret pale places of his body and he knows there’s still a few little burn scars down there. Greedily he wants more.

It barely even hurts. Hot and sudden bright burst digging into the muscle, but it’s not nearly as scorching as Dean’s mouth to his skin following the lighter. The press of those lips sear him down into his core, burn into his being so wholly Sam’s just a mass of scar tissue inside where Dean’s been and gone.

It’s a pattern, a process, that lulls and relaxes Sam like a lullaby as Dean flicks the lighter on to heat the metal and pets his shivering skin, presses the hot tip to him and follows it with a wicked mouth, and again, and again, peeling back Sam’s layers and opening him up until he’s begging. He’s probably been begging from the start, Dean’s always told him how he pleads with his eyes and his hands and his petal pink mouth – cock tease, baby boy, are you a slut for me or a slut for anyone.

It’s only Dean.

“Shh, shh, it’s ok sweetheart.”

The wetness on his cheeks isn’t sweat when Dean kisses it away with fluttering lips. Bodies pressed together Sam can feel the heave of his stomach and press of his chest, all muscle and heart, as Dean lays against him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Please.”

“What do you need, Sammy?”

“More.”

His hands know the landscape of Dean’s body even if his mind is somewhere else right now, above them or around them or maybe it’s just missing. But his hands, they mold over the push of a shoulder blade as Dean shifts and sweep down the curve of that strong back that bears too much weight and fit against the barely there dip of the waist that curves down with the slope of his stomach to a belly button and the little sparse trail of hair leading further. But Dean is sliding down his body in rhythmic waves or maybe it’s just everything that rolls now like the ocean in a steady heave-crash-pull, tide roaring loud in his ears.

Oh. That’s his heartbeat still.

Ramping up as Dean’s mouth moves over his skin, teeth and tongue, giving Sam the more that he asked for by taking it all. Sam doesn’t want it. Dean should pluck at his skin with those honed teeth and tear it off layer by layer until Sam is just a light nothing, just an empty something, just Sam and not Sam all wrapped up in past, present and future.

Dean knows how hard to be – very, until his teeth are dented in Sam’s skin and the memory will ghost there for days – laying down bruises like blooming gift flowers for one to cherish. Deep red sucks of blood coming to the surface, tender purple lingerings, half circles and mottled groupings down Sam’s chest and his belly and his hips. The suddenness of the pain, deep and aching, is something that cuts through the haze of his chemical high, swishing through the smoke fog to leave little lingering fizzles like afterimages. It’s all thrumming under his skin, this throbbing pulse of hurt.

The swell of echoing bruises coalesces into writhing mass of desperate wanting when his brother’s mouth finds it’s way over the dripping head of his twitching cock, he needs bruises there too, needs teeth and the suck of that hungry mouth. The world warps in disproportionate ways with the sways of his cotton head and the intensity of sensation down his body. With the slick silk of Dean’s mouth swallowing him down it’s like his limbs draw in to straw thin and everything shrinks as this takes over, burgeoning ripe need ready to swell and burst, fruit split and overspilling seed and juice.

Sam is already well empty from the pull of Dean’s mouth, scraped out and air bubble light. Fingers drifting aimlessly through Dean’s hair, wet squelch of that mouth working over him and finger tips pressing into the fresh burns on his thighs that pulse with a barbed heat, Sam shudders with the rolling sweep of climax and feeds himself to Dean, dripping wet and white over swollen lips stretched wide around his cock shining with spit.

Panting, belly trembling, all his muscles useless and his head floated away, Sam squirms on the shifting bed when Dean kneels up between his legs and shoves his thighs wide. He can help, he’s not useless, he wants to give not just have Dean take. Running his hands down his skin trying to find where they’re supposed to go by feel alone because he can’t take his gaze off the green shimmer of Dean’s dilated eyes, Sam gets his hands on the backs of his thighs just under the knee and holds himself open wide, the offering he is, begging.

Dean shifts away momentarily for something in the discarded jeans pocket and Sam whimpers for the distance. But Dean shushes him and murmurs sweet nothings like you coax a virginal doe with, still ripe with youth. Loose and giddy with release, with drugs, Sam opens easily for the press of his brother’s cock although it hurts with that sharp stretch of the first breach when the muscle protests and he’s not ready, not ready, but Dean’s such a good big brother and he makes it hurt like Sam wants.

“Sammy.”

“Fuck, please, more, please.”

He can’t gasp more than a single word at a time, tumbling over his bit sore lips as Dean hefts his hips a little higher and shoves in till their bodies collide with a roughness that makes Sam scream. And he doesn’t stop there, in the shocked open quaver of Sam’s insides stretched around him, he pulls out so fast Sam can feel his body like it’s turning inside out and at least he’s all hollowed inside now when Dean wrenches him apart. Quick nasty thrusts with a sweet roll of his hips that grinds that fat cockhead up so deep into Sam he’s pretty sure it’ll bruise his ribs where Dean really nestles into him most of the time.

Already spent, cock soft on his sweat slick belly, Sam holds his thighs up and wide with his fingers digging in to the fresh burns there Dean has left as a gift, and he cries in wracking sobs on the vicious fuck of his brother’s cock.

This is what he craves to fill him, once Dean’s torn him apart on wolf’s teeth that smile like a church boy, once Sam is hollowed out and he’s nothing, nothing, this is what he becomes. The purity of raw experience grounded in the pain ‘cause he’d float away without Dean there to hold him down with his weight, to pin him with this ache, to remind him with these bruises when his hands can’t hold Sam together. Of what he is.

Most importantly, he is Dean’s.

And when Dean has heaved and shook apart on top of him, gone still, when the bed stops creaking and another car passes outside, it’s quiet. From the tip of his toes to his fingers, inside and out.

It’s quiet.

The world comes crashing back with the rough wheeze of Dean’s breath as he gasps, hands pulling Sam’s legs down and his head bent to kiss above where Sam’s heart is rushing loud with the sound of the ocean to fill his ears. His body screams when Dean pulls out, hole sore and abused and he can feel the seep of Dean’s come, the flutter of his muscle, and it hurts too much to try to close his thighs even though Dean’s still between them and he wouldn’t get far. Doesn’t want to. Dean’s fingers tap over the blister red dots down his thighs and slide between his legs.

“Good, Sammy?”

He can only grunt in response, roll his hips down jerkily when Dean sinks three fingers right back into his ass that’s burning and makes his whole body jolt with the pain. “Yeah, yeahm’good.”

Humming, Dean scoots further down the bed in little measured increments, revisiting the marks he’s put on Sam’s body, maybe he’s counting them. But he always does this, and Sam’s stomach clenches in fond affection that Dean will always kiss it better. Dipping his head between Sam’s legs and licking around the stretch of sore muscle wide over his fingers and dripping wet, Dean eases his fingers out and replaces them with his tongue so he can bring Sam back down from the frantic bright pain with a gentle reminder.

Sam can’t remember if he came a second time on Dean’s dick when he was getting fucked stupid but his cock is hard now and Dean coaxes with his plush lips and nimble tongue, licking himself out of Sam like he can ease all the pain and all the need for it away with a kiss. Sam’s whole body is quivering, muscles overexerted and flush hot, stomach cramped for all the tension but it still contracts and relaxes with the draw of arousal pooling down low and deep. Gasping as he clenches his hands in the sheets, Sam grinds down against Dean’s face and lets it snap, come spattering messy up his stomach and chest to drip over his skin.

Dean’s face is triumphant when he pulls up, slinks up along Sam’s body licking up his come as he goes, collapsing on Sam’s chest and his weight is a reassuring solidity in a world that’s gone all loosely unspooled.

It feels like it takes forever to lift his shaky arms and wrap them around Dean’s back, the world still rippling around him like waves, but he’s anchored here underneath his brother. So Sam holds him close and tight, while Dean grunts and shifts until they’re on their sides.

“Better?”

“Mmm. Thanks.”

The air is still hazy and bitter with smoke, muggy with sweat and heat, heavy around the two of them as they twist up in each other like mingled breaths.


End file.
